


Nutshell

by darkangel1211



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cure for writer's block, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, One Shot, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 17:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel1211/pseuds/darkangel1211
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She didn’t want the complications from the chemo...”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nutshell

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them. Lyrics from 'Nutshell' are the sole property of the band, Alice in Chains, from which this fic was inspired.
> 
> Just a little deviation from my work on Perihelion. Writers block is not fun but, when I heard this song, this story just grabbed me in its jaws and wouldn't let me go until I wrote it down.
> 
> It's probably a given that there are other fics out there which are similar to this one or have this situation in them - this is my take on it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_We chase misprinted lies_

_We face the path of time_

_And yet I fight_

_And yet I fight_

_This battle all alone_

_No one to cry to_

_No place to call home_

_My gift of self is raped_

__My privacy is raked_ _

_And yet I find_

_And yet I find_

_Repeating in my head_

_If I can’t be my own_

_I’d feel better dead_

**_Alice in Chains - Nutshell_ **

The sixth of May, twenty-thirteen, would be a day that would forever be ingrained into John Watson’s memory, although he couldn’t help but think it was a date that he’d better start avoiding. Two years ago to the day, John had met Mary Morstan, a lovely lady from accounting at the GP surgery he’d just started working at, with her shy smile and the way she tucked her long, blonde hair behind her right ear, a pearl earring glinting in the lights of the offices behind reception. He’d taken a liking to her immediately and had asked her for out for a drink after work. Her answer had been a pretty blush painting her face and a quiet, “I’d love to,” murmured in a voice that was quintessentially British, but again with the same shyness that she’d had meeting his eyes when he’d first approached her.

The friendly drink after work turned into two, then three, and before long they were officially dating. He told her all about his life before, during and after Sherlock Holmes; about the adventures they had together tracking down London’s most dangerous criminals and, nearly six months into their relationship, he finally opened up enough to tell her about the events that led to death of his best friend. Mary had taken it all on board with the open mindedness that John loved about her and, in return, she had told him her life story and spoke of one particular event that would fundamentally change their relationship from that moment onwards.

It was purely coincidental that Sherlock decided to return two months after Mary had shared her own secrets (and only one month after John had asked her to marry him), but Sherlock had always had a talent for inappropriate timing.

Sherlock had turned up at the flat he was sharing with Mary after she’d gone out for the night with some friends, which told John two things. One, Sherlock was aware that he was in a serious relationship with someone else because otherwise he would have gone back to Baker Street to see John, and two, he didn’t want to intrude on John’s new life by meeting Mary so had waited until he was sure she’d left before knocking on the door of the flat. John supposed now, standing where he was, it was a good thing Mary hadn’t seen Sherlock that night; the man had all the charm and charisma that only a member of the Holmes family could wield, but he had looked sufficiently subdued with a black eye and split lip after John was through with him.

The night had ended well, all things considered, with a promise from Sherlock to explain himself and a second-chance from John to reintegrate the detective back into his life, albeit at a compromise. There would be no more chasing criminals through the streets and John was going to marry Mary, regardless of Sherlock’s feelings on the subject. Not that Sherlock had made his feelings known to John about his relationship with Mary. In fact, he had been uncharacteristically silent on that account, but John hadn’t been of the mind to share with him what was none of the other man’s business. Mary herself had been thrilled to finally meet Sherlock at last and had been seemingly immune to Sherlock’s sometimes callous deductions of her, but the detective had surprised John by not bringing up the one thing that he knew for sure Sherlock would have seen written all over Mary’s face.

Sentiment on Sherlock’s part, he supposed, but John still couldn’t figure out who it had been on behalf of. 

Four months after Sherlock’s return, John and Mary were married in a nice church in Guildford, Surrey, by the name of St Mary’s (a fitting name, he reflected), with a maximum of fifty guests who were invited to the wedding and the reception after the ceremony. John had asked Sherlock to at least attend the wedding in honour of their friendship, as Sherlock had refused to be John’s best man, but he’d only shown up at the church after the wedding and offered his congratulations to the both of them on their marriage.

It would be another year before John saw Sherlock again. 

The warmth of the summer sun was shining through the trees in St Mary’s church, the warmth of the sun’s rays warming John’s back where he was turned away from them, his back straight and his head bowed to better see the headstone in front of him.  

          

**Mary Watson**

**Born 18th December 1977**

**Died 1st May 2013**

**Devoted wife and beloved friend**

 

John couldn’t help but wish that he’d had enough money to add something extra to the headstone that commemorated the area where his wife was buried; something more to say just how she had kept him sane during their short year together before her cancer had overcome her (ovarian, stage IV by the time it was diagnosed, a mere three years before they met), because somehow one sentence didn’t seem enough to encapsulate how much she meant to him.

He heard the footsteps coming up behind him from across the graveyard, heavy on the ground to make sure John was aware of the other person’s presence as they came to stand beside him in front of Mary’s grave. He didn’t need to turn to look and see who it was; the shadow cast by the other person’s body was a dead give-away and Sherlock hadn’t changed his appearance in the year that they’d spent apart. The trademark coat and curls of the detective’s hair could be seen on the ground in front of them and, if that wasn’t enough, the weight of Sherlock’s gaze on the side of John’s face was a potent reminder of how much his grief could be seen by the man who saw everything.

Sherlock had even possibly seen the amount of time John would have left with the woman he loved, not that Sherlock had ever told him what that figure would be, but they knew each other so well that he’d seen it on Sherlock’s face the first time he’d seen Mary. Could have almost seen the thoughts whirling in Sherlock’s head in the restaurant where they’d agreed to meet.  _‘Advanced stage of cancer, ovarian a possibility given physical signs of bloating, difficulty eating and frequent visits to the lavatory. Stage III… No, IV… Diagnosed three years ago, projected survival rate five years maximum. Surgery completed successfully, in remission until three months ago but has refused chemotherapy.’_

“She didn’t want the complications from the chemo,” John said in a quiet voice, still looking down at Mary’s headstone. “She was in enough pain from the cancer, she said, and she didn’t want to add to it.” He paused, his throat closing and choking around his next words. “She said she wanted to die with her dignity intact.”

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, absorbing the details, the sound of the detective’s breathing overridden by the noise of the wind as it rushed in the trees over their heads. “She was a strong lady,” Sherlock said, finally, and God the sound of his voice after a year spent apart…

“Not strong enough to stop the thing that killed her,” John replied, his own voice bitter as he turned to look at his old flatmate.

“No,” Sherlock agreed, his face an unreadable mask as they looked at each other again for what seemed like the first time. John supposed that it was a first meeting again, given how much had happened after Sherlock’s fall. A new meeting with another person he’d known once upon a time.  “But you cannot deny that you made her final years the happiest they could have been,” Sherlock continued, his eyes darting over John’s face, no doubt reading his thoughts before he’d had them.

John looked back at Mary’s grave. “It was part of the reason why I married her,” he admitted, looking down at his hands to see they were shaking. “I wanted her to experience as much as she could before…”

The end of the sentence was left unfinished out loud, the words all but screamed inside the heads of the both of them but with neither having the inclination to voice them. And right now John didn’t have the strength to say it, not when Mary had only just been laid to rest in the grounds of the church where they had their wedding, not even with Sherlock here beside him.

“I only arrived back in England this afternoon,” Sherlock said, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat despite the warm weather. “I was urgently required in Thailand at the end of last week but I did not expect that the case would take as long as it did.”

John smiled (a half smile only but at least it was something) at Sherlock’s attempt at an apology for not having been at Mary’s funeral earlier that morning. “It’s ok, Sherlock,” he said, the sound of the other man’s name rolling easily off his tongue. “We both know you would have been here if you could.”

It was a blatant lie, of course. Sherlock hadn’t even turned up for his own mother’s funeral, less than six months ago, but the reasons were unknown to John and Sherlock hadn’t contacted him to explain his absence. Nonetheless, John’s words stood uncorrected but he wasn’t sure if that meant Sherlock would have come if he’d been able, or if he was letting John believe that for his own peace of mind.

Either way, the outcome remained the same. 

“Do you have any plans for your immediate future?” Sherlock asked him, drawing John’s attention back to the detective. 

John scoffed. “You know I can’t afford the rent on my flat,” he replied, already thinking ahead to the inevitable eviction notice and subsequent move to another part of London under which he could support himself. It all seemed too much to think about now, given the fact that he’d just lost his wife after seeing her fight her own battle in her own way, and now he would have to continue fighting for his chance at a new start after her passing.

Unbidden, he felt the sharp sting of tears behind his eyes as memories, both happy and sad, swept through him. A deep seated regret that he hadn’t been able to let go of took his legs out from underneath him and he felt his knees contact the ground with two hard knocks; felt the sensation of Sherlock’s arms coming around him to stabilise him as his body crumbled under the pressure, wracked with dry sobs, reaching up to clasp Sherlock’s arms and needing the permanence that Sherlock somehow represented now. “I’m tired, Sherlock,” he sobbed, pressing a hand to his eyes as his body shuddered under the invisible weight that he knew Sherlock would be able to see, would be able to feel under his hands. “I can’t even go back to the flat because it… it  _hurts_  and I can’t-”

“Ssh,” Sherlock soothed him, tightening his arms around his friend and remaining silent until John stopped and wiped the tears from his eyes. Only then did he encourage John to look at him and, when John met his old friend’s eyes, he noticed the calm and depth inside them, with a sincerity that John had never seen on the other man before, not even when the detective had apologised for his fall.

“What do I do?” John asked, his fingers grasping at Sherlock’s coat, the undeniable scent of Sherlock surrounding him and his strength keeping them pressed tightly together on the ground. “Where do I go from here?”

He felt Sherlock breath on his temple as the other man pressed his head close to John’s, his fingers rhythmically rubbing at the nape of John’s neck with the other hand curled securely around his back, his actions, for once, speaking louder than his words. “Come home.”

The End


End file.
